‘Money?’ said Birkin. ‘She’ll get what she wants from Halliday or from one of her acquaintances.’

‘But then,’ said Gerald, ‘I’d rather give her her dues and settle the account.’

‘She doesn’t care.’

‘No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one would rather it were closed.’

‘Would you?’ said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald, as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They were white–skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet they moved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were childish.

‘I think I’d rather close the account,’ said Gerald, repeating himself vaguely.

‘It doesn’t matter one way or another,’ said Birkin.

‘You always say it doesn’t matter,’ said Gerald, a little puzzled, looking down at the face of the other man affectionately.

‘Neither does it,’ said Birkin.

‘But she was a decent sort, really—’

‘Render unto Caesarina the things that are Caesarina’s,’ said Birkin, turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was talking for the sake of talking. ‘Go away, it wearies me—it’s too late at night,’ he said.

‘I wish you’d tell me something that DID matter,’ said Gerald, looking down all the time at the face of the other man, waiting for something. But Birkin turned his face aside.

‘All right then, go to sleep,’ said Gerald, and he laid his hand affectionately on the other man’s man shoulder, and went away.

In the morning when Gerald awoke and heard Birkin move, he called out: ‘I still think I ought to give the Pussum ten pounds.’

‘Oh God!’ said Birkin, ‘don’t be so matter–of–fact. Close the account in your own soul, if you like. It is there you can’t close it.’

‘How do you know I can’t?’

‘Knowing you.’

Gerald meditated for some moments.

‘It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the Pussums, is to pay them.’

‘And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the right thing for wives: live under the same roof with them. Integer vitae scelerisque purus—’ said Birkin.

‘There’s no need to be nasty about it,’ said Gerald.

‘It bores me. I’m not interested in your peccadilloes.’

‘And I don’t care whether you are or not—I am.’

The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in and brought the water, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sitting up in bed, looked lazily and pleasantly out on the park, that was so green and deserted, romantic, belonging to the past. He was thinking how lovely, how sure, how formed, how final all the things of the past were—the lovely accomplished past—this house, so still and golden, the park slumbering its centuries of peace. And then, what a snare and a delusion, this beauty of static things—what a horrible, dead prison Breadalby really was, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! Yet it was better than the sordid scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might create the future after one’s own heart—for a little pure truth, a little unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried out ceaselessly.

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she opened it.

“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant’s reply, but the door closed, and someone began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the door.

“Come in,” I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our advertisement. “It’s this as has brought me, good gentlemen,” she said, dropping another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he’d say if he comes ‘ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough at the best o’ times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along with —”

“Is that her ring?” I asked.

“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be a glad woman this night. That’s the ring.”

“And what may your address be?” I inquired, taking up a pencil.

“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here.”

“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”

“And your name is?”

“My name is Sawyer — hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her — and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and what with liquor shops —”

“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in obedience to a sign from my companion; “it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind. “Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.